The Butcher (Ruthless Sinners MC 10)

His glorious home would become my prison.

I was locked away in a room in the left wing—away from the main part of the house, far away from his wife and children, and there were guards constantly posted at my door. But there was no need for the guards.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

I couldn’t.

If I even thought about trying to run away, DeLuca would kill my father, and he’d kill me, too. So I did the only thing I could. I gave up all the things I loved so dearly—my home, my fiancé, my friends, and family—and I succumbed to the fact that part of my life was over. I would be Antonio DeLuca’s financial advisor and nothing more.

It took me some time to adjust to my newfound life.

I spent the first few weeks crying and praying that this was all just a dream and in time I would wake from this horrible nightmare. It took some time, but eventually, I accepted my fate, and the tears stopped falling. Don’t get me wrong. I was still a complete wreck. I was scared every second of every day, but I was able to at least function and do the work I was brought there to do.

However, I still lived in absolute dread, fearing one wrong move would set DeLuca off, and he’d put a bullet in my head—something he’d promised he’d do on many occasions as he questioned every piece of advice I gave him.

“That can’t be right.”

“Like I’ve told you before, to make money trading stocks, you have to be able to make two important decisions.” I looked up from my makeshift desk in the corner of his office as I continued, “When to buy and when to sell, and right now is the time to sell.”

“But that stock is still making money.”

“Yes, it is, but it’s not the kind of money it should be making.”

“You’re fucking with me!” Anger flashed through his eyes as he eased his suit jacket back, making sure I could see his gun. “You want me to look like a fool.”

“That’s not true. I would never do that.” I was terrified and my entire body was trembling, but I did my best to keep my voice steady and calm as I told him, “I’m saying that holding onto an underperforming stock is only going to hurt you.”

“And if I sell?”

“You put that money into a better investment. Simple as that.”

“That’s easy to say when it’s not your money on the line.”

DeLuca didn’t just want to play the stock market game.

He wanted to win, and he wanted to win big. He believed it was the best way for him to make a name for himself and impress the local politicians—but I knew it was a waste of time. It didn’t matter how much money he made playing the stock market. Antonio DeLuca would always be seen as a cold, heartless, murderous mafia boss, and nothing more.

I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was becoming irritated.

It was a common occurrence and happened any time he wasn’t sure what he should do. He didn’t want to appear ignorant or weak. That kind of vulnerability would ruin a man like him.

Hoping to ease his mind, I told him, “This is what you brought me here to do. You know I’ve studied the market, and I’m good at what I do. I’m telling you that this is the right move. Now, you just have to decide if you are going to take my advice or continue losing money.”

“Fine. Sell the damn stock, but you better hope this is the right move.”

“It is. You’ll see.”

“For your sake, I hope you’re right.”

He gave me a wink, then placed his hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. His sudden change in mood almost gave me whiplash. I honestly didn’t know what was worse—him threatening me with his gun or him being eerily nice to me. I worried that it was meant to be a seductive gesture, but thankfully, he kept his word and never took things further than a few brief touches or fleeting gazes.

After a quick wink, he removed his hand from my shoulder, then turned and started out of the room. He hadn’t gotten far when he announced, “I’m going to a meeting. I expect all of this to be done by the time I get back.”

“I’ll have it done.”

I completed the sale, then purchased the more profitable stock that I felt certain would double his payout by the end of the quarter. Once I’d finished the transaction, I started on his books. Like most in his line of work, DeLuca had two running books—one that contained the true financials and one that was purely fictional.

While I had access to names and accounts, I wasn’t given access to what had actually been bought or sold. I could only assume from the things I’d seen on TV that he was running guns, selling drugs, or involved in sex-trafficking. It was the only thing that could explain the kind of money that was changing hands.